Talking with Ghosts
by miloowen
Summary: The last of Will Riker's ghosts, put to rest. This is set about a year after Cochrane Day, in the Post-Sherds universe. The title is from the poem "Blue Dementia" by Yusuf Komunyakaa.
1. Chapter 1

Talking with Ghosts

He was pruning roses. He hadn't expected to like gardening. He'd thought, with cooking, and sailing, and the music, that he had enough to distract himself from the focus of his life now. But he'd enjoyed taking over the gardens, perhaps recalling the pleasant experiences he'd had with Dmitri and his cousins in the tribe's community garden, and he'd enjoyed the natural projects that had come with it: removing the diseased and dying trees, replanting the lawns, adding the tile patio and stone walkways, building up the stone walls, mending the gate, and then adding the pool, and the cabana, and the playhouse, after the children had come along. The roses were a late acquisition. As acutely attuned as he was to scent, he'd been surprised to discover that the scent of the roses had stimulated Jean-Luc; good times, then, to sit on the patio and allow the wafting spice of rose trigger Jean-Luc into memories of a childhood spent in LaBarre, or his summers here in Sitges.

So he was pruning the roses, slowly and carefully, listening to the hum of bees in the herb garden and the birds in the citrus trees. Something plopped in the fish pond, a koi coming up to the surface perhaps, and a lizard eyed him suspiciously from its perch on the wall. In the year since their anniversary, when Jean-Luc's diagnosis had become a fatal one, the new medication had done its job, they'd been able to sail through the Greek Islands, and had retaken their vows on Rhodes; they'd gone to Florence and Milan, and then Rose had come here, just before Sascha left for space, for her family-only wedding. It had been a good year, but he was seeing the small tells which indicated that the remission was nearing its end. Jean-Luc, never a garrulous man, often disappeared, inside himself. He'd asked the doctor about it, wondering if there were some internal life Jean-Luc was engaged in, to which he was no longer privy. The doctor's answer was kind, if devastating: Jean-Luc was simply going away, and where he went, there was nothing there.

It was unimaginable. Better, he thought, to keep himself busy, with small, physical chores, so that he could sleep at night, without resorting to medication. Jean-Luc's sleep was restless, and his need for it diminishing. The time would come, as Jean-Luc had predicted, for them to be in separate bedrooms, if he were to function at all. He never used gloves when he gardened and of course he stuck himself, on a thorn. He sucked his thumb, watched the blood well. Rose had scolded him, warning him that microbes still existed – that even tetanus still existed - but he hated the feel of gloves on his hands. She'd been annoyed that he'd found antique roses that still had thorns, shaking her head at him when he explained that if you wanted scent, you also got thorns.

He placed the shears down and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Now that his hair was gone on the top of his crown he'd taken to wearing a hat the way Jean-Luc always had, and he lifted it off his head and set it down in the wheelbarrow with the shears. His shoulders ached, from bending over, and he was thirsty. He could, he supposed, push through to the end of this section, but it was close to shift change. He heard the door open, saw Locarno step out, and nodded at him. He lifted the wheelbarrow and pushed it back to the shed, placing it inside. He took the cloth from its peg and cleaned his shears, and hung them up. Then he picked up his hat and locked the shed door. Jean-Luc was on the patio with Locarno. Perhaps this would still be one of the good days.

"Serge," he said, sitting down.

"We thought you might like a cold drink," Jean-Luc offered, handing him a glass of iced tea.

"Thank you," he answered, taking a sip. Long ago Tzippi Cardozo had taught him how to make a citrus-infused iced tea, and he'd had it programmed into their replicator. He glanced at Jean-Luc, and then at Locarno. "What is it?" he asked.

Jean-Luc had the gall to look sheepish, a look Will hadn't seen on his face in years; Locarno looked away. He emended his question. "What have you two gotten up to?"

"It was my idea," Jean-Luc said. "Don't be angry with our Mr Locarno, Guy. He just helped me implement it."

Sandbagged, he thought. "Why do you always assume I'll be angry?" he asked. "I'm not an angry person at all."

Jean-Luc's mouth twitched. "Of course not, Guy," he murmured.

He looked at the pair of them, and then he said, "Oh, fuck you, Jean-Luc."

Jean-Luc grinned. "I told you it would be all right, Serge," he said. "Why don't you fetch our surprise?"

"Aye, sir," Locarno replied. He ducked his head, Will saw, because he was grinning like the village idiot.

"Channeling da Costa again," Will said to Jean-Luc, who was drinking half a glass of chilled white wine. "What the hell are the two of you up to?"

Jean-Luc shrugged.

There was movement, Will saw, in the kitchen, and then a strange sort of whining sound; the door opened and a black-and-white rocket shot out, propelling itself around the table and then jumping, with absolutely no apologies or common sense, so hard into his lap that he nearly fell backwards, chair and all.

"What the fuck – " but words were apparently not allowed, because they were swallowed up by slobber and tongue, and then the rocket zoomed out of his lap, leaving him breathless, while it darted and leaped and bounced and rolled around the garden. Jean-Luc began to laugh, something that had always been a rare occurrence, and the laughter brought the demon jumping and wriggling around the table.

He caught it by the scruff of its neck and lifted it up so that there was eye contact. The eyes were mixed – one blue, one brown – and gleaming with intelligence and spirit. "And who the hell are you?" he asked it, receiving yet another sloppy kiss.

Jean-Luc stood, carefully, and walked over to him, resting his hand on Will's shoulder. "The last of your ghosts, Will, put to rest," he said.

"Is that what you are?" he asked as he cupped his arm around the pup's hind legs and held it. "A ghost needing to be put to rest?" The pup grinned at him, its tongue lolling; and then, without so much as a by-your-leave, it fell asleep, in his arms. Jean-Luc's hands, frail yet warm, held his shoulders, and he lowered his face into puppy fur. And then the ground beneath him was cold cement, the air cool and damp, pine and puppy wafting on the breeze, yips and yowls of sled dogs and ravens calling -

"Will. Come back to me," Jean-Luc said beside him.

He was weeping. "She was right here," he said, "she was right here, and there was Bet and Patch, and it was cold –"

"You have to let it go, _mon cher_ ," Jean-Luc told him. "You have to let her go."

He turned his face into Jean-Luc's tunic, the pup still in his arms. "I can't do this," he protested, his voice muffled. He felt warm hands carding his hair in the back, felt Jean-Luc's face against his head.

"Of course you can, Guy," Jean-Luc replied. "Look how sweet he is. He knows you already."

He pulled away and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "There are a million reasons," he said, trying not to look at the dog, "not to bring a puppy in this house now."

"A million?" Jean-Luc kissed the top of his head and took the sleeping puppy out of his arms. "Surely not a million, Will."

"Training a puppy takes time and patience," he said. He was on firmer ground now. "It takes a full-time commitment. Especially with this breed of dog."

"And why is that?" Jean-Luc stroked the puppy's fur. "Why is the breed of dog important?"

He sighed. "It's a Border collie, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Locarno said. "Ambassador Picard initially wanted to try to find a sled dog, but when we spoke to the vet, he said it really was too warm here. He thought a collie might be a better breed."

"You went looking for a husky?" he asked. He shook his head. "You have any idea, Jean-Luc, how big a dog that is?"

"That is what the vet said." Jean-Luc shrugged.

"Border collies are intelligent and demanding," he continued. "They need structure, and solid training. They need lots of exercise. They need a job to do. They're working dogs. Jean-Luc, do you see any sheep around here?"

The puppy whined in its sleep, and Jean-Luc handed it to him. "You've never had a pet, Will, not once, not in all these years." Jean-Luc was still beside him, his voice low. "We never let the children have an animal, even though Rose begged and begged."

"It was a cat she wanted," he said. The puppy was completely relaxed in his arms; soft and warm.

"People will tell you," Jean-Luc continued, "that they know how you feel. That they understand what you're going through. But they won't, Guy. No one will share your experience, not even our children. But a dog –"

"Like Bet." The only time he ever mentioned her name was if he had the nightmare that signaled a return of his anxiety.

"Yes," Jean-Luc agreed. "A witness, like Bet."

He set the dog down on the grass and it stretched its legs and sighed. He sipped his tea, the condensation on the glass cold. A light wind rustled the leaves of the orange trees along the back wall. "I don't even know what puppies eat anymore," he said.

Jean-Luc sat down.

"We got food from the vet, Admiral," Locarno offered. "And a collar and a leash."

Will glanced at the black and white pup still asleep, one leg twitching as it chased – sheep? Rabbits? – in its sleep. "I should be angry," he mused. "It's a presumption. An outrageous one, Locarno."

"Aye, sir."

"Oh, fuck you both," Will said.

Silence. Jean-Luc contemplated his wine glass. Will refused to watch the sleeping dog, even as his eyes were drawn to it. An insect flew near its nose, and the dog opened its startling blue eye and batted it away.

"I suppose," Jean-Luc said, "Mr Locarno, that this means supper from the replicator tonight."

He nearly choked on his iced tea and the puppy sat up and yipped. "Come," he said, and the puppy was in his lap before he could reach for it. "Outgunned and outmaneuvered," he told it, "yet again." He stroked its silky head. "It means Lieutenant Locarno is off to find us take-away."

"You're a hard man, Number One," Jean-Luc said. "No away teams for me."

"Does it have a name?" he asked, grinning.

"That's for you to decide," Jean-Luc replied. "Fish and chips tonight, then, Mr Locarno, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind, sir," Locarno said. "Ensign Muñoz will be here in a few minutes."

"We'll have to replicate training pads," Will said, standing. "Unless you got those from the vet, too."

"I'm afraid not."

Locarno took their glasses and held the door open so Jean-Luc could enter the kitchen first. Will set the puppy on the tiled floor. "You'll help me with the name?" he asked.

"If you wish." Jean-Luc sat at the table.

"Do you want more wine?"

"No, thank you. Would you like me to go with Serge?"

Will walked over to Jean-Luc and held him. "No, of course not."

"Not mad, then?" Jean-Luc said with a small smile.

"No. Not mad at all."

" _Bien_." Jean-Luc laid his head against Will's chest for a moment.

Locarno said from the doorway, "Ensign Muñoz is here. Do you need me to pick up anything else?"

"No," Will answered. "Just no mushy peas, or I'll never hear the end of it."

Locarno grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

"I guess," Will said, "we'd better feed this ghost."


	2. Chapter 2

He'd never had a pet, unless you included Livingstone. He couldn't remember, now, why he'd even had Livingstone. Had the lionfish been in his Ready Room when he'd come aboard? He remembered reading about David Livingstone as a boy, during that time when he'd been ill. He closed his eyes, briefly, and was suddenly overwhelmed with the scent of freesias, and then he remembered: ill with a fever and fatigue that wouldn't go away, confined to bed when it was spring outside and agony to see it only through his window, listening to Robert and Louis and the other boys playing football and running helter-skelter through the rows and rows of vines. He wasn't really the kind of boy to feel sorry for himself, and yet it was so patently unfair, when he was so tired he could barely lift himself from his pillow to see what Louis was laughing about. And then filling his doorway was his aunt Adèle, down from Paris just to see him, her favourite nephew, kissing his cheek and touching his forehead just once, so as not to embarrass him. She brought a suitcase in with her, and if he hadn't been so tired he would have laughed – was she unpacking and moving in with him?

She placed the suitcase, gently, at the foot of his bed, and helped him to sit up, shifting the pillows behind his back.

"These are for you, Jeannot," she said, pulling down the velseam.

At first he was disappointed, although he'd tried not to show it. How he hated to be inside instead of swimming with Louis and scoring goals!

His Aunt Adèle, though she'd had no children of her own, seemed somehow to understand. She took each brightly-coloured book out carefully, setting a few down on his night table and placing the rest – there must have been twenty! – on his desk by the window. She put the suitcase near the door and sat down beside him.

"You are so very much like your father," she said, and then she laughed, because he hadn't been able to hide the expression on his face quickly enough. "I know, I know. He's the last person on Earth you want to be like."

At least he had the grace to be embarrassed that she knew how he felt about his rigid and fussy father.

"But I remember Maurice as a small boy," she continued, "and he had the heart of an explorer, just as you do."

He was astounded. Finally he protested, "I – I don't believe you."

"Of course you don't," she agreed. "Who could believe this of Maurice as he is now?"

Still embarrassed, he picked up one of the books. "Who was David Livingstone?" he asked.

"He was," Aunt Adèle promised, "a very unusual man."

Who could have thought, he'd wondered, later, when he the sounds of night were folding in, and he could see the merlot-coloured thunderclouds moving in through his window, that the pages of books, with their peculiar scent and their crisp skin-like pages, would be equal to swimming in the river or climbing out his window to count the stars? And how had his Aunt Adèle known, as old as she was, that he would be able to be drawn into these countless worlds, quite beyond his ability to resist? And yet there he was in Africa, following the paths of Stanley, and Livingstone, or climbing the mainsail on a wine-dark sea, or terrified in an alleyway because he'd heard the laughter of a certain Mr Hyde.

And Livingstone, poor Livingstone, had died quite alone on his Ready Room floor, in the rubble of his beloved ship; and he could see Data, picking at the broken pieces of the bridge, searching for Spot…he remembered thinking that he could not bear the loss of both the lionfish and the cat. He was weeping, the look on Data's face as he picked Spot up, and they were all of them gone, Livingstone, and Data, and Spot. She was gone too, but her name was lost to him, and he reached down to steady himself, only to feel a cold wet nose on his hand and then the slow kind kisses of a dog's tongue.

"Hello," he said, as the dog pushed its face into his side, almost as if it were – what was the damned word again? – herding, that was it, herding him onto the chair. He sat, his knees suddenly weak, and drew in a sobbing breath – he'd been crying, and what on earth for? "Who are you?" he asked the dog, because he'd not had a dog when he'd been a boy, and he was fairly sure he'd been remembering something about his Aunt Adèle, she of the warm milk at bedtime.

The dog chuffed and laid its head on his knee. It was a beautiful dog, he realised, a collie, black and white as some collies were, with one eye a startling blue and the other a deep brown. Blue like Will's, and then he said, "I know you," and the dog opened its mouth as if it were laughing: _Yes, of course you do_. "Where's Will, then?" he asked it, the fog fading. He was on the patio, in the sun without his hat, or his jumper, two items that Will would surely fuss at him over, and this was Will's dog, Ghost, that he and Mr Locarno had given Will some three years before.

He stroked the dog's silky head. "There's a good lad," he said. "There's a good lad. Imagine me, crying over my lost fish. You're a good dog."

Ghost's tail thumped against his leg.

He used the tail of his shirt to wipe his face, and waited for Will to come collect him.


End file.
